


fast talk

by Domoda



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Bobby | Trevor Wilson Redemption, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Experimental Style, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Bobby, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nice Bobby | Trevor Wilson, trevor wilson apologism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27245836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domoda/pseuds/Domoda
Summary: 1.	Alex was friends with Bobby because Luke was friends with him, and Luke was friends with Bobby for the same reason most of the Freshmen were friends with Bobby—because he had a car and a license. Reggie was friends with him because he didn’t like to be left out of things.2.	Bobby was popular and smart, too, although he acted like a tool some of the time. While Reggie daydreamed, Alex sweated and Luke doodled in the corner of his notebook, Bobby could answer any question the teachers threw him with precision and grace. He was athletic, although not as fast as Luke, he was charming, although not as girl-crazy as Reggie.3.	Bobby was friends with them because, for some inexplicable reason, he liked them.--Or: Trevor Wilson; a story told in 192 parts
Relationships: Alex & Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Luke Patterson & Reggie, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Carrie Wilson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 116





	fast talk

1\. Alex was friends with Bobby because Luke was friends with him, and Luke was friends with Bobby for the same reason most of the Freshmen were friends with Bobby—because he had a car and a license. Reggie was friends with him because he didn’t like to be left out of things.

2\. Bobby was popular and smart, too, although he acted like a tool some of the time. While Reggie daydreamed, Alex sweated and Luke doodled in the corner of his notebook, Bobby could answer any question the teachers threw him with precision and grace. He was athletic, although not as fast as Luke, he was charming, although not as girl-crazy as Reggie. He had a diverse and wide spreading group of friends, from the testy nerds of the theatre club to the loud jocks who gathered around the entrance of the high school, baseball bats resting on their shoulders. He was early to school and drove a few people home after the last bell, although Alex heard a rumour that Bobby’s beat-up red mustang only circled back to the school parking lot for hours after closing, long into the easy, dark California nights.

3\. Bobby was friends with them because, for some inexplicable reason, he liked them.

4\. Bobby drove while Luke talked incessantly about a band he’d like to make some day. It would, obviously, be the best band in existence. It would break new ground. It would destroy convention, yet also be incredibly popular and timeless. As he always did, Luke included Bobby in the great plan, as a promoter/agent/sound mixer/stagehand, as a way to keep him invested in the idea. Reggie interjected with every idea, accidentally derailing the conversation a couple times. The delivery of the pitch was, as always, a mess. Bobby listened, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

5\. Bobby could play Spanish guitar and had done two years of music theory class.

6\. None of the other three had been able to get into music theory class, due to their failing English/Math grades. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Alex was able to get in, but he had hidden that. He didn’t want to have to shuffle his timetable and potentially get dropped from the other’s classes.

7\. Reggie and Luke followed Bobby around, asking for music tips and dragging out explanation after explanation about chord progression for bass guitar and vocal warmups. Bobby told them that his classical music training wouldn’t translate to electric guitar, but they still orbited around him like moths to a flame. Bobby’s loaned textbooks became littered with song lyrics and scribbled out doodles. Reggie borrowed his guitar so often Bobby sometimes didn’t have it returned in time for class.

8\. Bobby played them Españoleta in the school parking lot, his cherrywood guitar propped up against the crook of his knee.

9\. It wasn’t so much the songs they wanted to hear, but the way Bobby moved from chord to chord in a fluid, easy manner, the product of years of gentle correction from tutor after tutor. His hands drew their eyes like iron shavings to a magnet. He played Greensleeves, Vivaldi, Cavatina, and a handful of simple, thrumming hymns. Bobby enjoyed the attention, although he didn’t take any requests, he varied through a wide variety of classic music, while he smoked his way through half a pack of Malboros.

10\. That was another thing. Bobby smoked. Luke hated, loudly. Reggie found it deadly cool. Bobby didn’t respond to either of them, except when Luke said that he should think about the people he would leave behind after he got lung cancer. Bobby stubbed his cigarette out on the cover of Luke’s black notebook.

11\. Luke wouldn’t forgive him.

12\. The cigarette burn left an ugly, dirty mark on the cover. Luke wouldn’t talk to him. Reggie, tugged between the two of them, eventually chose Luke, and Alex folded and followed him. They had only known Bobby for a few months, but they had known each other for years. Still, Reggie kept glancing across the cafeteria to where Bobby sat, surrounded by a thick group of friends.

13\. “Are you sure we can’t just go over and talk about it?” “We can’t, Reg.” “But he’s a great guy!” “No, he isn’t.” “He lent me his guitar! One which doesn’t give me splinters!” “I’ll buy you a new guitar if you shut up.” “...No, you won’t.”

14\. “Hey, Bobby,” Reggie leaned over the back of the moulded plastic chair. He had to crane his neck to avoid the hard metal poles of the bleachers.

Bobby leaned backwards and regarded him coolly. He had the cool look down to an art. “Reginald.”

“Look, Luke would really like to be friends with you again,” Reginald said.

“No, he doesn’t,” Bobby returned his gaze to the playing field. “Otherwise he’d be here himself.”

“You’re right,” Reggie deflated. “But to fair, you’re in the wrong. How can you damage something that’s so important to him and not even apologise?”

Bobby said nothing for a long moment. He watched the football players disperse, their toothed shoes tearing up grass. The coach shout something down a megaphone which was incoherent this far away, reduced to a garbled string of loud noise. Bobby leaned on his elbows.

“I’m sorry,” said Bobby, quietly.

“You shouldn’t say it to me!” Reggie spluttered. “You should say that to Luke! He’ll forgive you.”

Bobby laughed, coldly, “Just like that?”

“If you really mean it, then he would,” Reggie insisted.

Bobby’s eyebrow raised. His eyes followed the wet, flattened grass in front of him. He wiped his face, “I’m not sure I would.”

“Who’s this?” A girl stopped in front of Bobby, carrying two drinks. Her long blonde hair was tightly curled and hung in glossy sheets over her letterman jacket. Two ruby-red plastic cherries dangled from each ear.

“Hi!” Reggie surged forward, “Hi, Hello. You’re very pretty.”

“Thanks, Claudia,” Bobby accepted one of the girl’s drinks. “That’s Reginald. And don’t worry, he has more sense than to hit on my girlfriend right in front of me.”

Claudia grinned.

“Right!” Reggie scrambled backwards. “Er, it was nice meeting you, Claudia. I’ll be going now.”

“Bye,” Claudia gave a wave as the boy skittered backwards.

15\. Bobby apologised, with a bow and everything. He even presented a brand-new black notebook and sticker package. Before he could finish speaking, Luke picked him up in a crushing hug.

16\. Bobby joined the band the next week.

17\. Claudia had the ambiguous role of girlfriend of a bandmember and was thus adopted into the fold along with Bobby himself. She sat between Alex and Luke in the back of the car, while Reggie sat next to Bobby, because otherwise Reggie got carsick.

18\. The band didn’t yet have a name, but Claudia called them The Tune Boys. This was a name none of them could stand. Reggie struggled to pretend to like it. Bobby had to shorten it to The Tunies, but even then, most of them referred to it as just “the band.” They practiced in Reggie’s basement, the sound rumbling through the dense cement. Reggie’s parents hated the boys, but Claudia was the daughter of Reggie’s dad’s boss, and so they couldn’t turf them out. This was a tenuous arrangement, and only valid when Claudia was actually present.

19\. Luke came up with The Sunset Curve after a week of careful planning. He ran it by everyone three times.

20\. Alex wrote songs with Reggie in French class, page after page of rhyming couplets and disconnected ideas. They wanted songs with positive messages. And no French.

21\. A week after the band’s naming ceremony, Bobby came into school on Monday with a broken forearm in a vivid orange cast.

He told them it was from falling off a ladder while cleaning the gutter. He said it didn’t hurt.

He let the three of them decorate it, which devolved into a short, heated debate. Luke drew a large sweeping black curve on the underside. Alex and Reggie drew a semi-realistic bone Xray on the top on black marker, which showed the broke breaking cartoonishly just under the wrist.

When Claudia laid eyes on it, her pale eyes filled with some dark feeling. She snapped her gaze to Bobby, “Are you serious?”

“You don’t like the decorations?” Luke asked.

Claudia ignored him, rounding on her boyfriend, “I can’t believe this.”

Bobby’s expression was sour. “Sorry,” he said, “that I broke my arm, Claws. I know that must be very inconvenient for you.”

“That’s not what this is about, and you know it,” Claudia folded her arms. “You said you’d tell me if it got worse. This,” Claudia waved her arm around the gathered group of boys, “letting me find out like this isn’t telling me!”

“I fell off a ladder, Claws,” Bobby said, dully.

“Sure,” Claudia turned, flipping a tide of flaxen gold hair behind her shoulder, “You know, that’s your right arm. You know that was deliberate, right?”

Bobby lifted a shoulder, “So I can’t play guitar for a few weeks. So what? Maybe you can strum it for me.”

“You’re impossible,” Claudia turned on her heel and stalked away. She shot over her shoulder before she left: “Tell Malcolm to break your leg next time!”

Bobby glared darkly after her, his expression taut and tight.

There was a falter in Bobby’s effortlessly cool façade. Something sharp poking through. A time they would think about, after their own deaths. The first cracks in a dam. _Broken glass, and an acidic smell_.

“Who’s Malcolm?” Reggie asked.

Bobby turned his smile on him, “Don’t worry about him.”

22\. Claudia didn’t want to see Bobby for the next few days, so they couldn’t play in Reggie’s basement. Playing at Luke’s place was out of the question—even so much as parking there drew Luke’s parents out in a loud argument. Alex didn’t want to think about his parents. So, Bobby drove them to a large house none of them had seen before.

“This is yours?” Luke asked, as soon as he’d gotten out.

“Not mine,” Bobby said, reluctantly. “Cousin’s. She’s alright with us here, though.”

“This is perfect,” Reggie circled the studio. It was large and make mostly of pale wood, the spiralling orange rings stretching far above them. The acoustics wouldn’t be bad, in a room this symmetrical. “Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier? We could have been here the whole time.”

“Trust me,” Bobby said, slamming the car door shut. “The less you see of my family, the better.”

23\. Claudia was mysteriously replaced by a dark-haired girl, Maddie, who found bands, guitar playing, and perhaps the entire concept of music—to be boring and irritating. Even Luke, who could get along with anyone, found her a little difficult to deal with. She spent most of her time trying to pull Bobby away from the band, even while they were in the middle of a performance.

24\. After a week, Maddie was also replaced, by Angelica, a quiet girl with bone-straight red hair, who even Bobby didn’t seem to like much. They tolerated each other for some unknown reason. Bobby and her shared cigarettes behind the bike rack. When they smoked, Bobby seemed like a stranger, surrounded by loud, foul-mouthed friends.

25\. Reggie wished his parents would just get divorced. Sometimes he heard them bellow at each other in the middle night and he climbed out of the window and sat on the low tiles, watching the moon. It was too dark to read out there, and he had already broken one phone by accidentally dropping it off the top of the roof. He did nothing but stargaze, and wish he had the nerve to pick up smoking. Then, he might look cool, rather than just lonely.

26\. The music was just as good without Bobby as when he joined in. He sat at the edge of the studio and drummed his fingers on his orange cast to the beat.

27\. Luke wrote song after song and copied out each into his black notebook. His father found his drawings stuffed behind the sofa and binned them.

28\. “Who’s Malcolm?” “Malcolm’s nobody.”

29\. It approached winter, which technically meant midterms. It rained, heavy and often. Alex went through notebook after notebook. The only thing which calmed him down was when he played, the satisfying blow of the drums, the way the floor shook, the music which picked him up and carried him. Their music was a living thing, warm, rich and alive, possessing them and pulling them.

30\. Bobby’s cast came off and his skin was pale and his arm trembled. He had a split lip and a bruise on his temple, again from a ladder fall.

31\. “It’s called Crooked Teeth,” Luke said. Reggie laughed. Luke passed around the sheet music, scrawled in his familiar scratchy handwriting. They talked through it, Luke’s voice softening as he sang, Alex already making the motions of playing the drums. Reggie smacked his thigh. They played.

Bobby took out a pen and copied the music onto actual sheet music, just for himself. He slotted it into his folder of band music.

32\. Sometime in October, Reggie came to Bobby’s car to see an expanse of pale back, and a tide of bright gold hair. An elbow hit the window with a dull thump. The car door released, and two people tumbled out. Bobby’s arm flew out to stop the blonde girl from falling onto the wet cement.

“Hi, Claudia,” Reggie took a step back, a flush rising to his cheeks.

Bobby pulled out a shirt from under the seat and passed it to Claudia, who pulled it on. She flipped her golden hair back, and straightened up, “Hi, Reg.”

“So you, uh,” Reggie frowned. “Got back together?”

Bobby wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Lipstick smeared his chin. “Yeah, you could say that.”

33\. The Sunset Curve scored a gig at a local coffee shop, although the area was too small for Alex to bring his full drum kit. He brought a set of banjo drums instead. Old patrons of the coffee shop constantly told them to play more quietly. Reggie ended up switching his mic off. When they were finished, Luke bought them all tall cups of coffee, which ended up costing half of their entire paycheck, and they drunk them all on the balcony, feeling light and happy.

34\. Halloween was spent studying for everyone except Alex, who worked a shift.

35\. Bobby wrote a song, which nobody liked, but they played anyway. It was off-kilter and tuneless. At the end of the night he scrapped it.

36\. Alex came out to Reggie, who hugged him. Alex shook. With permission, Reggie passed it along to Luke and Bobby.

37\. Christmas separated them. Luke forgot how much he felt for his friends until he was barred from seeing them for two weeks. His mother watched him, hawklike, and his guitar was moved from his room into his parent’s room. He couldn’t even tap out a tune with his pencil.

Although Luke was supposed to be studying, he couldn’t think. He spent long, difficult hours just staring at a question paper, a dull irritation smouldering in him. He wanted to call Bobby and have him drive over. Bobby was a fearless type. But Luke had technically promised to behave.

When Luke’s varied collection of cousins, aunts and uncles, filtered through the doorways, his mother’s attention was diverted. Luke still hadn’t completed any work. Taking pity on him, Luke’s aunt slipped him a dozen CDs in a nondescript plastic bag.

Luke spent Christmas Eve and most of Christmas day listening to Nirvana, Blur, Oasis and Red Hot Chili Peppers, plugged into a beat-up old Walkman, the covers pulled over his head.

38\. Bobby was late coming back to school. On Wednesday he finally arrived. The January dew clung to his red car, which had collected a few more dents. Bobby was all smiles. Before the boys could come near, Claudia was talking to him in a low voice.

“Bobby,” Luke grinned, and then frowned. Bobby’s cheekbone was bright red and so swollen it distorted his eye. “What’s wrong?”

“He has a broken collarbone,” Claudia said, straightening up, “Ladder again.”

“You should get someone else to clean the gutters,” Reggie said, seriously.

Bobby grinned humourlessly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

39\. Bobby’s beautiful Cherrywood guitar was no more. “She met an unfortunate end,” Bobby said. There were bright red wood splinters scattered across the footwell of the driver’s seat, as if someone had smashed the guitar against the steering wheel.

40\. Reggie wrote a song about cheerleading, which Bobby and Luke liked, but Alex didn’t. Too much about short skirts and lipstick. They agreed to shelve it, but a week later, Reggie reused the riff and parts of the chorus to make a song about forbidden love with a librarian.

41\. Alex tried to negotiate his way out of a Christian summer camp. He thought he had convinced his parents, but still found the application in the small pile of letters left to be sent. He knew it wouldn’t make much difference, but he tore it up anyway.

42\. “Claudia, who’s Malcolm?” Luke asked.

Claudia looked up from her book sorting. She didn’t wear a librarian uniform, instead only a lowcut peach-coloured top and a bright necklace which glimmered on her collarbone. “I’m only supposed to talk about books.”

“This is important,” Luke insisted.

Claudia picked up a thick copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, “Malcolm is Bobby’s older brother.”

“Is he… hurting him?”

Claudia sighed and combed her gleaming hair behind her ear, “Yes, he is.”

Luke stared at her.

Claudia’s pale eyes cut to him, “Don’t look at me like that.”

“We have to tell someone,” Luke said. “We have to—”

Claudia caught his wrist, “You’ve got to think about this, Luke.”

“What’s to think about?!” Luke said, his voice rising. “I won’t stand by and let Bobby get hurt!”

Claudia glanced around, at the librarians who were looking over. She dumped the books she was carrying and dragged Luke into an empty classroom, closing the door behind her. At each ear, a tiny, yellow plastic banana swung.

She turned on Luke, “You can’t say anything.”

“We need to tell his parents,” Luke said.

“Trust me, his mother doesn’t care,” Claudia said.

“Then the police!”

“I’ve tried that,” Claudia swept her hair back, “there’s not much they can do when it’s just two kids of a similar age fighting. Worst case scenario, it goes on Bobby’s record too. Then he can’t get any kind of job coming out of Highschool.”

Luke stared at her.

“I’m sorry, Luke,” Claudia said. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“There has to be,” Luke said, dully.

“It’s messed up. But the world’s messed up,” Claudia opened the door. “Sometimes all you can do is deal with what’s in front of you.”

43\. Spring came reluctantly. The sun shone a little more. It didn’t rain much. The sky was very blue.

44\. Alex wrote a love letter. It wasn’t to an actual person, but to an idea of a person. Someone soft and kind and funny. He called it a poem and passed it to Luke who broke it down and made it into a song. There was a riff lingering in the back of Bobby’s mind, and when he played it, Luke nodded and nodded along. It was absorbed into the love song.

45\. Reggie fell for a girl in his English class, a girl with hoop earrings made of pink plastic and was always getting written up for dress code violations. Bobby gave him some spectacularly bad advice, and Reggie’s confession ended with a slap. Bobby laughed when Reggie limped to the car, pink faced. Luke made Bobby apologise.

46\. They played another gig, in a bookshop. They played acoustic. Alex browsed the shelves. Luke promised to teach him guitar, but Alex turned him down.

47\. Bobby’s cousin came out of her house sometimes, to listen to them play. She sat with Claudia, a steaming mug of hot chocolate on her knee.

When they were finished, Bobby’s cousin clapped. “You should get a female vocalist. I think it would break up your sound—in a good way. Like Joan Jett!”

“That’s a great idea!” Reggie exclaimed. “Do you know any?” He looked pointedly at Claudia.

“Claws can’t hold a tune,” Bobby said, and raised an eyebrow. “No offense, babe.”

“Guilty,” Claudia raised a hand. “I don’t like singing.”

“How can you not like singing?” Reggie asked, bewildered.

Claudia leaned on the arm of her chair, “Maybe if I had a voice like yours, I’d love to sing.”

Reggie flushed and stumbled a little, “O-oh. Thank you.”

48\. Luke started keeping his notebook in his locker, where his father couldn’t find it and bin it. It wasn’t quite big enough to keep his guitar in.

49\. They played another gig, in a youth centre. It was finally a venue where they could fit Alex’s drums onto the stage. Playing all together again was electric. The energy of the Sunset Curve vibrated through them, as free and powerful as an earthquake. When they finished the set, they were breathless and sweating under the hot stage lights. They agreed never to play without Alex again.

50\. Bobby got a parking ticket which he debated with the meter maid for so long that Luke felt like pulling his hair out. When they finally drove away, Bobby was taciturn for the whole evening, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

51\. Reggie failed another exam, which caused another minor catastrophe with his parents. Luke and Alex cajoled him into a study group which inevitably devolved into song writing. Bobby was out, somewhere.

52\. Luke’s parents talked about sending him to a different school. Getting a tutor. Locking his guitar away and straightening him out. Luke listened calmly for as long as he could before his top blew and he stormed out. He pulled his Walkman out and listened to Weezer’s Blue Album as he circled his neighbourhood over and over, while the sun sunk in the sky. Two hours later, his father’s car followed him slowly along the road, and Luke got in without comment.

53\. Bobby noticed something out of the corner of his eye and straightened up, shifting his hands on the steering wheel. The sun dazzled on the red hood of the car.

Reggie was in the middle of a long diatribe but paused when Bobby’s shoulders went tense. He was watching the city stream by their window, eyes fixed on something ahead of them.

“Crap,” Bobby breathed, voice shaking slightly.

Reggie frowned, “What’s—”

Something exploded over Bobby’s open window.

The car swerved, but Bobby put his foot down before it straightened out again, lurching out into the street. Liquid splattered Reggie’s ear and he jerked sideways. Bobby drove with only one eye open, the car squealing.

“Was that a bottle?” Luke asked, leaning between the car seats.

Bobby pulled erratically into an empty carpark and yanked the handbrake, throwing the driver’s side door open. Brown glass clinked, shards flashing as they fell. He tumbled out onto the cement, whole body shaking.

“Are you alright?” Alex asked, climbing out after him.

Bobby shook. He was soaked, glass glinted in his hair and the folds of his jacket. His dark hair dripped.

“Was that Malcolm?” Luke asked, and Bobby nodded, “Think so.” Luke glared back at the direction they’d come. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

With weak legs, Bobby sat down on the cement. He looked like he might puke. He slicked back his hair. His eyes were wide, a deer caught in the headlights.

“You’re bleeding,” Alex said, suddenly.

“Y-Yeah,” Bobby said, touching his cheek. The broke glass had lodged into his cheek, just below his eye. Blood ran down his face in a thin, dark mark, like running mascara. Bobby touched his hot skin. His hand was bleeding too, dripping between his fingers.

With the back of his hands, Bobby wiped the uninjured part of his face and tried to slick his hair back from his face. His eyes were watering. Gingerly, he pulled his jacket off and dropped it into the waste bin. He peeled his wet shirt off and pulled a pack of his cigarettes from his back pocket. It was too cold to be shirtless, and goosebumps rose across Bobby’s pale arms.

“Is this beer?” Reggie asked, wiping a little bit of the liquid from his cheek. It smelled foul and acidic.

“No,” Bobby said. He seemed very tired, lighting the cigarette with a flick of his lighter. “It’s piss.”

54\. For a week after that, Luke couldn’t write. Every time he tried; an impotent rage bubbled in him. He scribbled out every line. He ripped out pages. He wanted—to reach out, and change things. But all he could do was sit in his bedroom and pretend to study.

55\. Reggie passed an exam the first try and gave Alex his notes. Alex tried, but couldn’t focus on them.

56\. Claudia made cheerleading co-captain, and taught Luke and Alex to cartwheel. Reggie was too nervous to try.

57\. Bobby drove. A lot. He must have driven every street in the city at least six times and knew it better than a taxicab. When he was stuck in traffic, he wrote uninspired rhymes and listened to Spanish guitar.

58\. Alex sat quietly while his parents preached at him.

59\. Luke booked them a gig at an upper-class café/bar. Because they were underage, they were only allowed in the venue for a very short window and waited in Bobby’s car for two hours before they hurried in to make their timeslot. It was a shockingly good performance. The air sizzled.

60\. They got an agent.

61\. THEY GOT AN AGENT!!!!!

62\. They celebrated by getting pizza, and then dairy queen, and then McDonald’s. Bobby’s car reeked of junk food and was stuffed with empty wrappers. Reggie begged Bobby to teach him to drive, and Bobby refused yet again. Luke had so much energy he was practically buzzing. Alex smoothed and folded every paper wrapped and piled them all up, a bubble of warmth in his chest that was infectious and seemed to lift him up slightly. He felt weightless.

63\. Even when Luke’s parents were less than impressed by the news, that couldn’t put a dent on Luke’s shiny, glossy happiness. It was untarnished.

64\. Reggie pulled all of his songs together and sorted them. Bobby had provided copies of Luke’s songs in Bobby’s neat, squarish handwriting, on actual note paper. He sorted them first by theme, then by title, then by style, then by how much he liked each song, then by how much bass guitar was in them. Then he changed his mind again.

65\. The Sunset Curve’s agent book them a gig at a real venue, one with a changing room and complementary drinks. Everyone was impressed by how young they were. When they performed, it was like something took over them. Everything slotted into place.

66\. Reggie’s parents met, and disapproved, of all of them. The comments were very harsh.

Bobby made fun of them in the car ride back to the studio, their frowns, their disapproving glares. His body language was easy and relaxed. Reggie’s parents became cartoons in Bobby’s performance, toothless and ridiculous.

Reggie laughed, and felt something tense unwinding in his chest. His parents hated his friends, but his friends didn’t care, because they loved him.

67\. Claudia and Bobby had another loud, emotional row. Bobby had flirted with Claudia’s co-captain, which had caused a rift in the cheerleading squad. Bobby hadn’t meant anything by it; he flirted with everyone. That was something else Claudia hated. She didn’t want to feel like yet another of Bobby’s conquests. Bobby pointed out that technically, she was. Claudia looked like she might bite him.

68\. The agent called with more and more gigs. They started to perform every month, then every two weeks. The agent always talked about “momentum”. The band were happy to oblige.

69\. Claudia and Bobby broke up. This time, it seemed to hurt him. He moped around the studio like a lovesick puppy.

70\. Reggie’s parents moved into different bedrooms.

71\. Luke was pushed into taking track. He was strong and fast, and it would help his grades. Reluctantly, he agreed.

72\. Alex’s parents kicked him out.

He called Bobby, who picked up on the third ring. Bobby drove straight there, heart in his throat. Alex climbed into the familiar, old car. He didn’t say anything, and Bobby didn’t talk.

Los Angeles streamed past the window. It was fully summer now, and the bright sunlight filtered down on the city like a blessing. The air was warm. It hadn’t rained in a long time, and the world had a dry, ancient feel to it, like an unused sunroom. The car squeaked and rumbled at odd moments, where the old gears crunched together.

A cheap blue acoustic guitar was propped up against the backseat. It was second-hand, and Bobby’s fifth guitar that year. The bright paint was worn where many musicians had rested their elbow, over and over, stretching back through the twenty years since it had been made.

Alex picked out a stray burger wrapped from between the seats and smoothed it out. It was faintly greasy. He folded it into a crane and unfolded it.

With a flip of his switch, Bobby turned the radio back on. It had been an hour of silence, and he doubted that was good for Alex’s mental state. Classical music trickled through the speakers, barely audible over the car noise.

Bobby watched Alex through the front mirror and switched the station to rock. Then the top 40s. Then to local news. Then to a jazz station.

Alex sighed, “That’s fine.”

Bobby took his hand from the controls. He took a bend slowly and doubled back on himself. He took side streets to avoid driving past Alex’s house. He circled downtown and got locked in traffic. After twenty minutes, the knot of cars released them, and Bobby drove through the streets. There were trees in Main Street which were heavy with bright green leaves. The smell of warm pretzels wafted through the sliver of open window.

“Are you hungry?” Bobby asked. “We could stop for some food. I’ll pay.”

Alex shook his head.

“Are you sure?” Bobby glanced back at him, “I don’t mind paying. It might make you feel better.”

Alex put his head in his hands and began to cry quietly.

Bobby turned back around. His heart hurt. He just drove. As he picked up speed, the air began to drum through the window, and he rolled it up. The little old car didn’t have a working a/c, so it wasn’t long until the air inside began to heat up.

Nothing stuck out in Bobby’s mind. He had no idea what to do. It wasn’t a time to go to the movies or visit the aquarium. So he just navigated traffic and stopped at a gas station, filled his car up and bought an armful of overpriced candy and sodas. He dumped them into the backseat next to Alex. He rolled out of the gas station and peeled off, back into the thick of the traffic.

Orange sunlight splintered over the skyscrapers, falling in parallel lines over the gleaming rows of traffic. They passed a car which played loud, thumping bass from speakers in the boot, loud enough to make the car shake. A tired cyclist weaved through a side street, a baby boy sleeping in the afternoon sun, strapped securely to her back.

Bobby wished he wasn’t seventeen. He wanted to be older, established. He wanted to have a safe home he could take Alex to, he wanted to have money to help him. He wanted to have some other option than the dusty backseat of an old mustang. His inabilities were making him irritated, and desperate.

Bobby turned off the freeway and drove down a boulevard thick with pedestrians. He slowed and stared up at the long, thin blue windows of the semi-mansions which lined the road.

Alex picked up a packet of crisps and opened it. He ate quietly. Bobby reached back to the seat, and Alex passed him a Dr. Pepper. He opened it with his teeth.

The afternoon wore on.

Alex ate sour candies and both packets of crisps. He drank Coca Cola and wiped the crusty sugar from his chin. Bobby slipped in and out of rush hour traffic. The longest they were locked in traffic was an hour between 4 and 5. Bobby cranked up the radio.

Alex’s phone rang.

He picked it up and talked so softly, Bobby couldn’t hear him over the roar of the engine. Alex sniffed. His voice was scratchy. Eventually, he snapped his phone shut and leaned against the window.

Bobby thought Alex was going to sleep, but he spoke, “Can you drive me home?”

“Home?” Bobby echoed, stunned. “Now?”

“Yeah,” Alex said. “My ma said I could come home.”

Bobby stared at him through the rear-view mirror. His mind was completely blank. “I, uh…” He swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

For lack of a better option, Bobby took the next exit and doubled back on himself. He passed red houses with white shutters, and hanging plants drooping with bright flowers. He knew a quicker route, but he took the longer one.

He wanted Alex to change his mind, but what was the boy’s other option? He could either be homeless or live with people who wanted to annihilate him.

Bobby had a great, cold stone in his stomach. He gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“Stop here,” Alex’s hand touched the back of Bobby’s chair. “I should walk back.”

Dutifully, Bobby drew into the side of the road and parked. Alex unclipped his seat belt. He bowed his head, “See you, Bobby.”

Bobby nodded.

The car door slammed shut. Then, as if shot by electric waves, Bobby threw the driver’s side door open and burst out.

Alex’s wet eyes widened, and Bobby engulfed him in a hug that was so tight it knocked the air out of his lungs. Bobby squeezed him tightly. Alex laughed tiredly and wrapped his arms around Bobby. He closed his eyes and rested his head on top of Bobby.

“Thanks for the ride, Bobby,” Alex said into his friend’s messy dark hair. He wiped his eyes.

Bobby’s face was pushed up against the crook of Alex’s neck. When he spoke, his voice was thick and muffled, “S’okay.”

73\. A week after that, their agent managed to snag a gig at the Orpheum. The Orpheum!

74\. Bobby’s bandmates were late for their performance. It wasn’t like them, but then again, they usually had Bobby to remind them of the time. He could think of many times when he’d had to round up Luke and Reggie and persuade them into a lesson. He was already running through the remarks he’d make when he found them again.

75\. Alex usually kept an eye on the time, though.

76\. And they’d never been late for a gig before.

77\. By the time the gig was due to actually start, Bobby was frightened more than annoyed.

78\. By 1 AM, he didn’t know what to think. He had circled the same dark city streets over and over. It was cold. A passer-by tugged on his elbow and murmured something. She had seen three boys, and…

79\. He made her repeat it.

80.

81.

82\. The funerals were all scheduled for the same day. Three glossy, cherrywood coffins.

83.

84\. Bobby didn’t attend. He couldn’t. He sat with his car idling in the parking lot of the graveyard, from midday until the time the sun sank below the dark tops of the buildings.

85.

86.

87.

88.

89\. In his dreams, he was still looking. He circled and circled and circled the streets on that dark summer nights. The smell of the boulevard was burned into his mind. The puddles from leftover rain. The gathered crowd and the way the moon reflected the wet street in a long, blue-white street. His anxious heart, beating, beating, in his throat.

90.

91.

92\. Bobby slept in his car.

93\. He didn’t attend class. He didn’t answer his phone.

94.

95.

96\. The school board was sympathetic, but not really. He needed to attend class. It was unfortunate, but it was close to finals. He needed to attend.

97.

98\. Bobby didn’t attend.

99.

100.

101\. Even in his dreams, he doesn’t find them again.

102.

103\. Bobby shaved his head with electric clippers. He inspected his head in the crappy bathroom mirror, between the spiderwebbed cracks which arched across the glass. He looked older. His eyes were dark and puffy. His body felt odd and wrong, like he had been taken apart and put back together wrong. He couldn’t relax.

104\. Grief is a heavy thing.

105\. His grief was a weight trapped just under the bow of his ribs, resting uncomfortably on his stomach. He could hardly eat for the weight of it. It made him feel sick. When he lay down, it spread throughout his body like a stain and he couldn’t move.

106.

107\. Malcolm smashed his headlights sometime early in the morning. Even now, Bobby couldn’t escape old trouble.

108\. Bobby stole his brother’s credit card and withdrew the maximum amount. He broke into his cousin’s studio and slept on the cement floor and decided not to go home.

109\. It was apparently that easy.

110\. Bobby took the metro down to San Diego. He walked through the city and ate anything he could buy. He drank fruit smoothies. He sat in cafes and read newspapers. He spent money irrationally.

111\. San Diego was gorgeous.

112\. Hot, though. And loud.

113.

114.

115\. He missed Luke.

116\. Christ, he missed all of them. He missed them ferociously, like a burn on his whole body. Every time he touched the handrail or brushed against someone, it would send a shooting pain directly to the dark ball of grief under his ribs. He walked the city with an open wound on his heart. His loneliness was obvious and repellent. People drew away from him.

117.

118\. His San Diego excursion ended with him curled up in the motel room, counting dollars. He had enough to return to Los Angeles.

119\. Bobby returned home.

120\. Malcolm didn’t. Bobby’s mother didn’t know where the boy had gone, he had just upped and left. Bobby tried to feel worried, but he couldn’t find the energy.

121.

122\. Grief was a thing he carried with him.

123\. Grief was sitting at the bottom of the ocean, staring at the emerald water which stretched above him, the weight of it pressing him flat against the seafloor.

124\. In his dreams, he still looked for them. In his waking hours, he watched the streets outside his house like an abandoned dog.

125.

126\. Everything was about them. He was saturated with memories.

127.

128.

129\. There was never a break. He woke up mourning.

130.

131\. Grief was a thing that was sunk into him. Grief had his head between its jaws, and all he could see was down Grief’s long, red throat.

132\. Grief is a hole you have to dig your own way out of.

133\. Money was tight, so Bobby applied for work. He didn’t have a high school diploma, but he didn’t have standards. That was a combination that landed him a dishwashing job and a job as a janitor. He worked long, grey hours, seven days a week.

134\. He didn’t smoke anymore. He didn’t remember when he had quit. Bobby had just stopped.

135.

136\. When Bobby moved out, his mother wasn’t surprised. She hardly even said goodbye, instead just insisted that he didn’t come back to beg money from her. Bobby assured her he wouldn’t.

137\. The first person Bobby told was his friend Carl, who had washed dishes next to him for two weeks before Bobby had remembered to introduce himself. Carl was almost twice his age, and had a dark, grey-grizzled beard and pale eyes.

“Christ, kid,” Carl said when he’d finished. “That’s… All three?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said.

“Next time, don’t the whole thing all at once. It’s a lot to take in.”

138\. It’s Bobby’s goal to work so much he doesn’t have to think. He flops back into bed so tired he hardly remembers to lock the door. Eating was an odd challenge. He had to eat very early before his shift and very late. Hungry pangs make his double over.

139\. He dropped the job as a dishwasher and replaces it with a barista job. His hours were so long that he’s pretty much a permanent fixture there. He trained new workers and he learns to make drinks with a smooth grace which almost gets him promoted.

140\. He turned eighteen, and the hole inside him is still so big he feels hollow.

141\. He liked the smell of coffee. He liked talking to customers. He liked wiping tables, he liked wearing an apron, he liked his hair growing back, just a little. He liked his boss and his co-workers.

142\. Why did it feel like a betrayal when he had a good day? They would want him to be happy. Still, he had the lurching, seasick feeling of forgetting.

143\. He can make a pumpkin-spice latte in under thirty seconds. In theory. In practice, his co-workers are usually in the way, and there’s not much room to move behind the bar.

144\. Bobby was sweeping up after hours when he heard a melodic roll on the piano. He froze and straightened up.

“Oh, sorry,” His co-worker Jade, a short woman in her thirties, lifted her hands from the piano. “I just wanted to practice a little.”

“That’s fine,” Bobby said.

“You’re sure it’s okay?” Jade asked.

Bobby shifted his grip on the broom, “That was Billy Joel, right? Piano man? I used to sing that all the time.”

Jade smiled widely. She began to play.

Bobby swayed a little, waiting for the song to begin. His singing voice was painfully rusty, but he let the melody roll though him. “ _It's nine o'clock on a Saturday / The regular crowd shuffles in,_ ” Bobby sang, “ _There's an old man sitting next to me / Makin' love to his tonic and gin…_ ”

“ _He says, Son, can you play me a memory? / I'm not really sure how it goes_ ,” Bobby felt something rising up in him, “ _But it's sad and it's sweet, and I knew it complete / When I wore a younger man's clothes_.”

Jade’s playing was slightly awkward and slow, and Bobby waited a moment.

“ _La, la, la, de, de, da_ ,” Bobby murmured to himself, “ _La, la, de, de, da, da, da…_ ”

Jade stopped.

Bobby took a moment to break himself out of the reverie he had fallen into. He frowned at Jade, “What’s wrong?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Jade said.

Bobby blinked and touched his face. Tears were sticking to his eyelashes.

145\. Spring passed.

146\. The anniversary passed. Bobby couldn’t think of a way to honour it, so he just let the days go by.

147\. Bobby’s mother died. He received a check of her entire estate, after the debtors had visited. It totalled two-hundred dollars.

148\. Jade hugged him tightly when he told her. She brought over apple pie and filled his little apartment with warm comforts.

149\. “I don’t know what to do with myself,” Bobby admitted, finally. “I don’t have anyone else.”

Jade rested on his small bed; her Dr. Pepper held aloft. She had brought a big bottle of vodka, and had gone weird and quiet when Bobby reminded her that he was still way too young to drink. She sighed.

“What’s keeping you in Los Angeles?” Jade asked.

Bobby clenched and unclenched his hands, but finally admitted, “Not much.”

“Then take your talents out of here, boy,” Jade said. “You’re a musician. You could earn as much busking in New York than you can earn here as a barista.”

Bobby watched the dark city outside his window.

150\. Bobby quit his job.

151\. None of the music schools answered his calls, but he had momentum now. He wanted to make music again, a burning in his chest like he’d swallowed something on fire.

152\. He took a plane to Las Vegas and worked as Elvis in a casino. He danced. He sang Hound Dog and Jailhouse Rock and Suspicious Minds. He ate shawarma with the other Elvises (Elvi?). He was rusty at the guitar and picked it back up gingerly. He listened to new music. He ate strange food and had girlfriends which were bad for him and gambled only a little bit.

153\. Las Vegas was as similar to Los Angeles as Earth was to Mars. Everything was dry and sterile, the roads were long and flat and empty, the night burned like a colourful star.

154\. Someone pulled him aside, after his performance, and asked him his name.

155\. He didn’t want to be dropout Bobby Bryant, Mr. Lonely, Mr. left behind.

156\. So he said his name was Trevor Wilson.

157\. Well, Trevor Wilson, will you play in my band?

158\. Trevor said yes, before his mind actually reached a decision. He felt strange all over. His nineteenth birthday was approaching, and he didn’t know who he was. He felt like a turtle without a shell.

159\. The band was called the Rolling Tombs, and it was alright. He sang in the back, playing guitar like meeting and old friend.

160\. They released an album, which was alright. It charted well for a debut, and his bandmates were nice. They were more like co-workers than friends. Bobby’s voice features on a few of the tracks, and those tracks were picked up the most by the charts.

161\. When an agent called, Trevor just said yes again.

162\. And then he was a solo artist. He requested month off from the contract, which he was granted, and he travelled back to Los Angeles.

It was difficult to return. He had been meaning to for months. Moving through his old house was like a ghost returning. He remembered the bare floors and featureless, scratched walls. He had half expected someone to have broken in and started squatting there, but apparently even they didn’t want it.

He found a case of sheet music under his old bed. He flicked through sheet after sheet of his own handwriting, the chord progressions written in neat blocky hand.

On his way out, he passed his old red mustang.

163\. He wanted the songs to be released. He wanted people to hear them.

164\. He could feel the energy in them, even when they were just sitting in his passenger seat. They were songs which were written in a different life, but they still thrummed with energy. They would be good songs in ten years, in twenty.

He explained the whole story to his agent in the lobby, the whirlwind summer of song writing, the three cherrywood coffins. His agent was hard to read at the best of times, but after he finished his story she just tilted her head and asked him to perform a song.

165\. The last few chords of Now or Never faded from Trevor’s electric guitar, and Trevor could feel the strings buzzing against his fingernail. It’s different without the drums, and Trevor can’t do all of the vocals, but he still felt that raw, swept-away feeling in the centre of his chest.

His agent clapped, “That’s a great song. Very powerful.”

“Thanks,” Trevor said, breathlessly.

Trevor slipped the guitar strap from his shoulder. The leather was slightly damp and smelled old. He felt a little unsteady on his feet.

“If the rest of the songs are half as good as this one, it would make a great album,” The agent said. “I’m sure we could sell the music.”

There was a little pause which made Trevor hesitate. He straightened up, “What’s wrong?”

The agent cleared her throat. “It’s the story behind them. Do you really want to tell people all that personal information?”

Trevor frowned, “What do you mean?”

“The deaths of your previous bandmates were… tragic, yes,” The agent said. “But do you think it’s wise to make people think of teenagers dying young every time they listen to an interview with you? We are trying to give people a good time here.”

Trevor went still. His spine was tense. “I, I—”

The agent waited patiently.

“I’ve got to go,” Trevor said, snatching his bag from the couch and storming out.

166\. A walk around central park didn’t help him much. It felt like his insides had been scrambled with an electric mixer. His brain too. He didn’t know what to think or feel, and his thoughts came slow and agitated.

Then, there was a flash of something in the corner of his eye. A jogger passed him, her long blonde ponytail swinging as she ran.

Trevor spun around. Was that—but no, couldn’t be. Right?

He watched her sprint away. Damn it. He ran after her.

She was fast, but he managed to catch up with her at the crosswalk, and caught her elbow, “Excuse me—”

The woman turned around and smacked him. Then she took a step back, “Oh, it’s you! You scared the crap out of me.”

“Claws,” Trevor grinned, rubbing his red cheek.

Claudia wiped the sweat from her upper lip. Her curly blonde hair was sticking to her forehead. “Bobby! It’s been, like, forever.”

“I go by Trevor now, actually,” Trevor said.

“Trevor Bryant?”

“Trevor Wilson. I’ve sort of reinvented myself.”

Claudia folded her arms, “That’s great. Do you want to get coffee?”

“I’d love to.”

167\. Claudia approached the table with two steaming cups of coffee. She had let her hair down and it flowed in a bright golden mane over the fleece sweater that she’d borrowed from Trevor. She set the coffees down.

“Before we get catching up,” Claudia said. “I have something I want to get off my chest. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

Claudia looked at her hands, “I’m sorry for not being there for you when the boys died.”

Trevor blinked at her and frowned. “What? But I didn’t answer any calls. I pretty much avoided all human contact.”

“Still, I…” Claudia sighed. “I could’ve tracked you down. I knew where you lived, and all. I guess because we’d only just broken up and I…”

“We were just kids,” Trevor said.

Claudia nodded, wrapping her fingers around her hot coffee cup. Her nails were painted a bright, attractive orange.

“I accept the apology anyway,” Trevor said.

Claudia smiled at him.

“What are you doing in NYC anyway?”

“Oh, I’m not here for long,” Claudia drummed her bright nails on the tabletop. “I’m going back to college in the fall, but I wanted to travel a little bit first.”

“College for what?”

Claudia’s smiled returned, bright like a bulb flickering on, “Conservation and Evolutionary Developmental Biology.”

Trevor scratched his head and coughed, “What does that… consist of.”

“Oh, you know,” Claudia twisted a strand of golden hair around her finger. “Conservation… and the evolution of developmental biology.”

Trevor shot her a flat look, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I’m just kidding!” Claudia laughed.

“Remember I’ve not studied anything since highschool.”

“Didn’t you drop out of highschool?”

“Exactly. Talk to me like I’m an idiot.”

“Oh, no change there then.”

168\. Trevor talked to Claudia until the café staff approached them and asked them to move along. Claudia wrote her number on the back of the receipt and Trevor tucked it into his pocket, feeling a warm bubble inside his chest.

169\. “So, what exactly is the problem?” Claudia asked, straining the pasta. She was staying in some friend of a friend’s spare room, and the apartment kitchen was barely large enough to lie down in. Trevor felt a warm roll of steam as Claudia turned the stove off.

“Difficult to explain,” Trevor said, which was code for: I don’t want to talk about it.

“Try me,” Claudia said, which was code for: Tell me anyway.

Trevor sighed. “I wrote a couple dozen songs with the boys when they were still alive. They’re good songs. I want people to hear them. But my agent won’t let me release them if I include any mention of them.”

“Why?” Claudia asked.

“Because they’re dead,” Trevor said. “And that’s a bummer.”

“Ah,” Claudia served the pasta into two small bowls, which she set on the table. Red sauce was ladled on top of the little mounds. “Can’t you just write your own songs? Then, when you’re popular enough, you can release them with the full credits.”

Trevor rested his chin on his hand. “Not with this agent. She won’t let me get away with presenting new writing now. And anyway, there’s no guarantee I’ll get successful enough to start my own label or be my own agent or whatever it takes.”

Claudia sprinkled the cheese on top of the bowls of pasta.

Rain dotted the window in an uneven beat. Wind rattled the shutters at the top of the windows, like someone trying to break down the window. Droplets rolled down the cold glass.

“So your options are…” Claudia pushed a bowl towards him. “Publish the songs as your own, and let others hear them, or find a new career and let those songs die with the boys?”

“Pretty much.” Trevor said.

Claudia sunk her fork into her pasta and began to eat quietly. When she wasn’t eating, she looked out of the window, at the grey city and the rain. Trevor watched her and ignored his steaming dinner.

“Well?” Trevor prompted. “What should I do?”

Claudia shrugged, “I have no idea.”

170\. Claudia had to leave the next week, and Trevor drove her to the airport. His agent had given him a week to come to some kind of decision. Trevor did everything he could not to think about it, visiting museums and aquariums and fancy restaurants. He called up and talked to the bass player of Rolling Tombs, who spent an hour telling Bobby all about her wife. She had moved to Catalonia, which had been the first state of Spain to legalise gay marriage just that year. The warmth in her voice had stirred up something in Trevor’s heart. He wished her well.

171\. Trevor had been lonely for a long time. It felt just about forever. He had turned twenty that year, but he still kept seeing Luke, Reggie or Alex out of the corner of his eye. When he looked properly, it always, always someone else.

172\. “What if I didn’t credit them publicly,” Trevor suggested, “what if I just sent their families a percentage of my paycheck?”

“ _No,_ ” Claudia said immediately on the other end of the telephone line.

Trevor leaned against the side of the telephone booth, “Are you sure?”

_“Yes, I’m sure. Are you kidding me? So, they can torment their kids and then after they die, they can still reap the rewards? You guys wrote those songs despite of your parents, not because of them.”_

“Hey, it’s not like that,” Trevor protested weakly. “I mean, we don’t know the full picture. It’s still their child doing all this.”

“ _Okay, Bobby. Which set of parents should we financially support? Alex’s, who kicked him out multiple times? Reggie’s parents who called you all girly-boys and told Reggie he was wasting his time? Do you remember when Mr. Patterson chased after us for daring to take his song to play a damn guitar?”_

“That was years ago now. Their children died.” Trevor leaned his head against the dirty plastic sides of the booth. “I’m sure they could take it all back if they could.”

“ _That’s tough_ ,” Claudia said, sharply.

Trevor winced, “Claws, don’t be—”

“ _No, don’t tell me to be nice. I’m not being nice, this situation doesn’t call for niceness. That’s your problem, mister. You’re always rolling over and showing your belly. It’s pathetic.”_

Claudia hung up.

Trevor felt an acute sting in his chest. He was glad he wasn’t really dating Claudia anymore—she was always like that. Unpredictable and capricious. Sharp, when he was asking her to be soft. Solid as a rock or flexible as anything depending on the weather, or the alignment of stars. It always caught him by surprise.

He set the phone back in the cradle.

173\. Still, she had a point.

174\. Trevor spent the last few days before the deadline writing emails which he didn’t send. Maybe, after he’d reached a peak of popularity, he’d write a memoir with full detail and scope, and then donate a fraction of the money he’d made to their families. Because it was possible that the boys loved their parents more than Trevor loved him. Maybe not.

175\. “So, Mr. Wilson. Have you made a decision?” “I have.”

176\. Trevor Wilson (born 13 February 1978) is an American singer-songwriter, producer and entertainer. He found fame as a member of the pop group Rolling Tombs from 1996 to 1997, but achieved greater commercial success with his solo career, beginning in 1998. Wilson has released three number one singles and two of his three studio albums have reached number one in multiple charts. He is widely regarded as one of most influential rock musicians and pop artists of the late 1990s and early 2000’s, being the youngest musician to be given the Jamesville award for music.

177\. Trevor spent every anniversary of his friend’s deaths working.

178\. He bought a house in 1999, mainly because he was sick of moving around so much and wanted a fixed address to send mail to.

179\. Trevor played the Superbowl half time in 2000.

180\. Between sets, Trevor sat down in his dressing room with his legs stretched out in front of him and eyes closed. A couple of his backup singers had remarked that it looked like he was an android that had just powered down. That wasn’t that far from the truth.

“Mr. Wilson?” A large man opened the door to his dressing room. “I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a woman here who wishes to see you. She’s on your white-list of guests.”

“A woman?” Trevor frowned, head fuzzy. A groupie? “Send her in.”

The large man stepped aside, and Claudia slipped into the room.

“Claws!” Trevor sat bolt upright.

Claudia bowed, “I brought Dr. Pepper.”

Trevor smiled and cleared a space for her to sit. The large man closed the door behind him. Claudia set the cans down on the table.

“You’re insanely popular,” Claudia said. “I was in the Amazon rainforest last week, and the tour guide was listening to your new album.”

“No kidding?” Trevor grinned. “And you thought I was just going to wash out of the industry like so many others.”

“I’ll admit to being wrong, just this once,” Claudia said, cracking open the tab on her soda.

181\. Claudia visited him often, but not often enough. Her stuff began to collect on the counter tops all over his house, her toothbrush next to his toothbrush.

182\. Trevor got older. He played with musician after musician. He shifted his focus and worked in music production and development, which he proved to be a natural at. There was hardly a song in the charts which didn’t have his hand in.

183\. Ringing woke Trevor in the middle of the night.

Trevor lurched out of bed and scrambled for the phone, flipping it open. He wiped his face with his hand, “Hello.”

“ _Trevor_ ,” Claudia said, and then paused.

“Claws, it’s 3 AM, can it—”

“ _No, it can’t wait. I’m pregnant.”_

“Oh.” Trevor said, shoulders sagging.

He could almost feel Claudia’s glare, “ _Don’t Oh me, you—”_

“Okay, okay, Claws. I just woke up. Let me think for a moment,” Trevor said. He rubbed his eyes. “Are you going to… do anything about it?”

“ _Do you want me to do anything about it?”_ Claudia asked.

It was a knife-edge question, and Trevor could feel the tension in her voice. She was in New Zealand right now, probably still in the airport. She was scared. Trevor breathed out deeply, “It’s your decision.”

“ _That’s helpful,”_ Claudia said. Trevor could almost see her pacing. Claudia huffed. “ _I’m very young. I’m only 26. I’m in the middle of my research project. I’m not sure another grant like this will come around.”_

There was an unspoken, desperate question in there. That was as close as Claudia ever came to rolling over and showing her belly.

“I’ll take care of the kid,” Trevor said.

“ _You will?”_ Claudia breathed in sharply. “ _Can you?”_

“I can, Claws,” Trevor said. “I’m richer than God. I can hire a nanny and everything, and besides, I like kids.”

“ _Not in New York. And I don’t want to get married, just because we have a kid.”_

“I can move back to LA.” Trevor said. “And I don’t remember proposing.”

Claudia was silent for a moment. Her breathing was thick. She had bee crying. “ _Thanks, Bobby.”_

184\. Trevor moved back to LA. He bought a big house. He interviewed upcoming musicians and helped them put together best-selling albums in his studio rooms. He worked long hours. He had set up half a dozen grants and scholarships for young musicians which didn’t require a high GPA like the others.

185\. He talked to his therapist and found it hard to articulate. He was scared, but happy, but excited.

186\. For so long, it had just been him. Him, and maybe Claws on her good days. He didn’t know what to do with a family.

187\. Claudia returned to America for two weeks. As per her request, he didn’t throw a party or anything, but instead stocked the fridges with her favourite foods. Claudia’s parents were very happy to meet him, and took up most of the afternoon just asking him questions. They left sometime after four, when Claudia also retired to the spare room.

Trevor was left alone with his daughter.

She was a cute little munchkin, about the size of a loaf of bread. She looked way more like Claudia than Trevor, although she had Trevor’s eyes. She was very young, and had a squished face. No eyebrows.

Trevor leaned over the crib and watched her. She seemed perfectly made and proportioned.

“Admiring my handiwork?” Claudia asked, leaning against the nursery doorway.

Trevor straightened up, “It’s half my work.”

“Hmm,” Claudia brushed a lock of limp, golden hair behind her ear. “Tell that to my muscle strain from lugging my baby bump all over the mountains.”

Trevor smiled. He pulled the birth certificate out from the folder of his daughter’s papers. “You named her without my input?”

“Come on,” Claudia shrugged. “You made up her surname.”

188\. Carrie Wilson curled up like a bean. She clearly inherited her father’s powerful voice. It was loud enough to shake the rafters, and she employed its use liberally.

189\. Claudia kissed him at the airport. Trevor had Carrie in a kangaroo pouch over his chest, her small head against his collarbone. Paparazzi snapped a photo of them, and Claudia flipped them off.

190\. It had been ten years since Luke, Reggie and Alex had died.

191\. Claudia had been right. Carrie was heavy. And Trevor had gotten a little bit weak over the past few years.

192\. The cemetery was cold and wind-swept. Brown leaves plastered every surface and formed a sludgy pulp over the dirt. Tombstones stuck up in regular intervals, like planted trees. The sky was a grey-blue frown, blocked out by dark California sycamores which bordered the cemetery grounds like natural skyscrapers.

Trevor tucked the remainders of his cheese sandwich into his coat pocket. Under his thick wool layers, he was already starting to sweat, but he’d learned that Carrie was much more sensitive to the cold than he was.

Right now, she slept against his chest, her hands curled into fists and her elbows bent. He brushed her hair back, and she stirred gently.

“Sorry, baby,” Trevor said, softly. “I want you to meet some people.”

The baby let out a huff, but her big eyes opened. She couldn’t yet focus on anything further away than Trevor’s chin, but she glanced around anyway. Carrie had a way of staring that made you think she could see right through you.

“These guys,” Trevor pointed towards.

Carrie watched his fingers. Her eyelashes were dark and short, as soft as chick down.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to visit.”

In front of him, three old tombstones. And below him, three cherrywood coffins.

Carrie made a snuffling noise, and Trevor stroked her head. He let out a long breath and felt a weight ease from his shoulders.


End file.
